Stray Thoughts & Musings
by Zanah1213
Summary: Just a seemingly random collection of drabbles that were inspired by one word prompts or that appeared as ideas in my head that wouldn't go away until put down on paper. Genre will vary per fic, expect mostly Johnlock.
1. Angry

Genre: Fluff/Humor

Prompt: 'Angry'

Word Count: 1,382

(AN: Aha, one of my first Johnlock pieces...I really liked it, surprisingly w)

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><p>"I'm angry, John."<p>

"Run that by me again, will you?"

There was an exasperated sigh from the couch. Of course.

"I'm _angry_." Sherlock's tongue rolled over the word quickly as he spit it out at John, who looked up from his laptop to smile wryly. He'd been blogging; or rather, he'd been attempting to, but he hadn't thought of something write about yet. There had been no cases for the past week and a half, and John knew Sherlock was going insane with boredom.

"That's not odd in the least. Why?" Sherlock was spread out across the couch in his pajamas and he shook his head slowly when John asked him the question.

"Difficult answer," he provided, eyes closed with his hands pressed together prayer-like, the tips of his middle fingers just brushing his chin.

"Well, I'm all ears."

"Can't."

"You…can't. That doesn't even make _sense. _Okay, fine. Let me try this. Problems with Lestrade?"

Curls bounced as Sherlock shook his head fiercely and immediately. His response was hardly surprising to John, who figured Lestrade was one of the only people in the police force who Sherlock could at least bear to talk to.

"Oh. Anderson, then?"

Actual consideration that time. Inevitably, another shake of the curls.

"Hmm...Moriarty?" That was a daring venture, and John knew that.

There was silence at this one for a while, but then Sherlock slowly shook his head.

"He's of no concern to me right now."

"Liar. Okay, well then. Mrs. Hudson?"

"Now why would she give me any trouble? It seems to me you're just skirting around the question you want to really ask." Now he was actually making conversation, that was a good sign, John figured. Of course, he was annoyed which was why he was talking in the first place, but it was still good. John ignored the last bit and forged onwards.

"Oh, I dunno what she'd do but I bet she could find something. But God damn it Sherlock, just tell me. I'm about ready to give up. This is infuriating, you know."

"Good!" Sherlock threw the upper half of his body forward as he sat up and gestured madly towards John. "Now do you understand how I _feel _at the moment? Feelings are so impossible to understand, this is why I don't burden myself with them!"

"No, not really. Probably never will," John said, shrugging. He frowned at the latter part of Sherlock's outburst, but didn't comment. Sherlock groaned and fell back against the couch once more, burying his face in his hands.

"If you weren't so…_you_, I'd call this a hopeless case. Have you _still _not figured it out?" Sherlock asked in a low growl behind his hands. He was becoming tired of John's ignorance to the obvious.

"So _me_, huh? That's a compliment, I think. And no, I don't think I _have_. Would the brilliant Sherlock Holmes care to _enlighten _me?"

"Brilliant, my _arse_," Sherlock muttered rather uncharacteristically. He pulled his hands away from his face and glanced at John, wondering briefly how he'd react to the uncommonly used vocabulary. Nothing.

"I'm waiting," John said stubbornly. He stood up and made a very pointed effort to cross his arms and tap his foot impatiently, winning Sherlock's attention immediately. He kept his eyes on the dark curls, watching them move from side to side as Sherlock considered something and shook his head again, slowly.

Sherlock was silent for some time; he was weighing his options, and they were all pointing in one direction. He uttered a low oath and sat up once more, swinging his legs and feet back onto the floor so he could stand up and head directly for John, who immediately stepped forward to meet him halfway, having seen the intent in Sherlock's eyes.

There was never hesitation when Sherlock kissed John; it was predetermined, every action he took, everything he was planning to do, he went through with it all with relative ease. The only time he'd paused and hesitated was the first time, but not any longer. He knew what he wanted and how to get it; John, cheeks flushed, his mouth parted to take, his hands on Sherlock's hips, possibly reaching under his shirt or maybe it was the elastic band of his pajama pants, there wasn't any way to tell.

He was pressed up against John with one hand caressing the other man's cheek and the other hand perched on his shoulder, and John was kissing back without thinking about it, because really, why should he? Here was Sherlock, so ardently presenting himself to John, in a way he rarely did. So of course, John was going to snatch the opportunity up without a moment's hesitation.

Sherlock, in all actuality, really _was _angry, and he displayed it with his actions. It was his tongue first, running along the inside of Jon's mouth and then his bottom lip, enticing him forward and closer. Then his grip tightened on John's shoulder so as to prevent movement for a moment, and he suddenly bit him on his bottom lip, enough to elicit a quickly subdued grunt of pain, but not enough to break skin.

John would have pulled away then, to breathe at least, but Sherlock was kissing him so fervently that there was no time to think about such a thing. Sherlock rested his arms on John's shoulders to run his hands through his hair in a sort of frenzy, deepening the kiss further. John only caught gasps of air as they continued, but he was too busy keeping up with Sherlock to bother with breathing, anyways.

Slowly, the kisses calmed, and Sherlock pressed his lips to the sides of John's mouth. Then he was kissing him placidly, almost languidly as he moved downwards, a single second spacing each kiss apart. John hummed approvingly against the smaller kisses, his arms draped around Sherlock's waist, begging him almost silently to pull closer to him. Where Sherlock had bit him still stung, but he was over it already.

"It was me, then?" There was amusement in his voice, and Sherlock paid no heed to it. He had his face against John's neck now, breathing slowly and steadily. He had placed almost his full weight on John, who staggered beneath him for a second before steadying himself. _His eyes are probably closed_, John mused. _His brilliant mind is probably thinking of some response to me being so terribly 'obstinate.' _

"It's always you," Sherlock said against John's neck. "It was painfully obvious too, this time."

"It was," John agreed with a laugh. He was grinning now, hoping to catch a glimpse of Sherlock's possibly surprised face. He did; Sherlock pulled away slightly and held him by the shoulders, examining his face closely. His questioning glance was just the kind of thing John had expected; he was confused, sure, but only temporarily, and he wasn't going to all out display it.

"Then why didn't y-" He started asking the question, but then understanding nailed him, hard, and he nodded, scowling now.

"You were playing a _game_. You wanted to see what I'd do in my _anger_."

"Excellent deduction. Why were you angry though, the first time?"

"Still ignorant then," Sherlock said dryly. John smiled, not minding the comment at all.

"Possibly, but tell me." John thought about it for a second and eventually lit on a possible explanation. "Was it because…Wait, oh bloody hell, say no, just say no…were you feeling ignored? Was the great Sherlock Holmes feeling ignored by John Watson?"

"You walk around calling me 'great'; you're a nuisance more than anything."

"That's a yes then. Still feeling angry?" John murmured, a smile appearing as he pulled Sherlock back towards him, finally thinking of something to blog about. Just a little thing. Sherlock mumbled a few grumpy words but then he sighed into the hug.

"Ever so slightly. It's dwindling though, the original anger-there's new anger for falling for your little game."

"Let me fix that," John suggested, and he kissed Sherlock once.

"Please do," was the short answer given before they fell on each other again.

_ The Blog of Dr. John H. Watson: _

_ When Sherlock gets angry, it's an interesting thing; you never know what'll happen. It makes life exciting, and it will continue to do so. _


	2. Apologetic

Genre: Fluff, straight up fluff

Prompt: 'Apologetic'

Word Count: 241

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><p>Sherlock drew himself close to John, who was seated at the couch with a newspaper, and he actually bothered to look regretful as he did. He opened his mouth to speak but John was ahead of him for once, throwing a hand up to his mouth while he himself frowned.<p>

"Don't."

Sherlock scowled beneath the hand covering his mouth and pulled away, forging ahead anyways. "John, I'm so-" He got only so far before the hand was there again, although he managed to dodge it at first. Then John put his newspaper down and grabbed the other man before he could move, trying to pin him down.

A small struggle ensued, but John surprisingly came out victorious, seated on top of Sherlock with a hand to his mouth once more.

"You really don't have to."

"I want to. So let me." The words were muffled and filled with held barely back anger, annoyance, and impatience. John sighed, withdrawing his hand slightly to let the other properly speak. Sherlock tried to sit up but once he realized John wasn't getting up he fell back against the couch with a groan.

"John, I'm sorry for what I said earlier, I only meant-"

John didn't let him finish, _again_. This time he stopped him with a kiss, leaning down and ending Sherlock's final attempts at an apology.

"Like I said, you don't have to. It's written all over your face. That's enough for me."


	3. Lonely

Genre: Fluff (I like fluff, okay?)

Prompt: 'Lonely'

Word Count: 274

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><p>John woke up because cold toes were pressed to his own.<p>

"Shit...Sherlock?" He recognized the man's figure even in the gloom of his room and he struggled with exhaustion as he tried to understand what was happening. This was not a usual occurrence, and he was pretty sure Sherlock understood that. Flatmates don't just climb into one another's beds.

"It's Mrs. Hudson," was the quiet reply. Even half asleep, John managed to roll his eyes at that.

"Don't be like that. What are you doing here?"

"You needed help." John grew more confused.

"Help with what? It's late, I was sleeping, and you woke me up. You're not really helping me." He sighed as Sherlock was silent for a long moment and he lay back down again, having swung himself into a seated position upon awakening. Finally Sherlock gave a muffled reply. It seemed like his face, or at least half of it, was buried in the pillow.

"Your loneliness." John gaped for a second.

"My what?" Sherlock's reply was haughty.

"You heard me." John licked his lips as he considered and then he shrugged.

"Alright then. Well you don't provide this kind of help to other people and you know that. It's...out of place."

"Draw your own conclusions if you wish. Now, let me sleep. I was so close until you woke up." Sherlock spoke in a tone of finality, effectively ending any possible argument. Or postponing it, at least.

John sighed and pulled the sheets up to his chin as he settled back comfortably. He said one final thing before smiling and falling asleep again.

"Wear some damn socks next time, Sherlock."


	4. Uncertain

Genre: Angst

Prompt: 'Uncertain'

Word Count: 334

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><p>He waited at the steps of 221B every night that he was free and available in London, which was more often than not. And whenever lying down on Molly's couch simply became too unbearable and boring, he'd go there on a whim, just to look up at the dark windows. No one lived behind those glass panes anymore, he knew, but he went anyways, because the boredom pulled him there.<p>

He still got bored so easily, and there was no doctor at his side to prescribe him a good night's kiss or two, maybe three if he was lucky. And he often used to be.

He couldn't say the same now.

No matter how late it was he would stand there or sit at the steps, his head down so no one would recognize him. He'd gotten a haircut, even dyed his hair in a moment of need, and had regretted it later; he didn't look like himself.

Would he even recognize him if he saw him now?

Maybe, maybe not, he thought as he ran a hand through it, wincing at the feel.

It was freezing in London during the first winter after his death. It was the kind of cold that made his nose turn pink and allowed him to watch his breath mist white in the air. Molly begged him to wear more than the hoodie he ran around in, but he usually refused.

The cold let him think by proving he was still human.

It bit at his cheeks and made them feel raw and numb as he looked up at 221B. His fingers turned pink like his nose, his shoes did nothing against the cold, allowing his toes to lose feeling, and eventually it became painful to flex his hand in the open air. He did so anyways, just to convince himself it was real pain.

He never did tell him he loved him, he came to realize. Not in words.

Now he wasn't sure if he ever would.


	5. When London Rains

Genre: Angst/Fluff (?)

Prompt: No prompt! Random inspiration found me yesterday!

Word Count: 1,062

(AN: Aha, this is actually for someone, yep~ To make up for a prompt that I will eventually finish _one day..._)

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><p>"Sherlock?"<p>

The single spoken word, voiced as a question, was drowsy and sounded like it had taken all the effort of the speaker to get it out. Yet they'd obviously prevailed and the person with the name half-turned in response, silhouetted against the window of the room. He was more awake and thus, his words filled the room effortlessly, even at a whisper.

"What is it, John?"

John was sleepy, but waking up rapidly as time passed, and he was ready with a question of his own almost immediately. First he propped himself up on his elbows though, and Sherlock paid close attention to the sounds of the sheet rustling, along with the sound of rain just outside.

"Can I ask you that same question? You _are_ the one standing by the window when you could be here, in bed and asleep. With me as an added bonus." John was amused, not mad; Sherlock was relieved by this small fact and he turned fully in John's direction to somehow show it. He didn't take a single step forward though, and while it was too dark for anyone to see, John frowned, missing the warmth that Sherlock's body curled up next to his had provided. It was why he'd woken up; the sudden chill had startled him awake and he had fumbled at the sheets for a second before noticing Sherlock by the window.

"It rained that night, did you know?"

"What? When?"

John knew exactly what and when, he just decided in that instant to let Sherlock explain. They hadn't discussed it in depth after all, not really; they'd talked about it enough to get by and move on, but it wasn't an easy subject, so it was often brought up and then dropped quickly.

"After I jumped off of the roof at Bart's." Sherlock started off slow, each word direct and carefully chosen. "That night, I stayed at Molly's and it rained. It was nothing less than a downpour and I liked to think at the time that it was London mourning the death of its then famous consulting detective. It was my only consolation." John winced to himself at the sadness in Sherlock's voice. That was such a rare and raw emotion in Sherlock that when it displayed itself, John was left defenseless most of the time.

"You're famous now," he said gently, although he scowled as he did. Being famous was arduous and more often than not, a pain. He sat up completely and began rubbing at his eyes with his hands while the scowl eventually disappeared. No need to get moody over something like that at such a late hour. Instead, he thought if different ways to get Sherlock back in bed. He was tempted to just get up and pull the other man back in with him just to move things along, but he was half hoping he'd come of his own will soon enough. Then they could go back to sleep. That was all he was in the mood for that night.

"Not famous like I was in the past. People flocked to me and demanded my help for their most trivial matters. Now they approach with half-lidded eyes as they peek at me cautiously and surreptitiously. Now they ask me in stuttering voices for help. Now they don't come to me first. Now they wait to see if I'll become a fraud again."

God, the openness that Sherlock was fond of at times was going to tear John to shreds one day, he just knew it. He wasn't sure he could handle it sometimes. He pulled his hands away from his face after running them tiredly down his cheeks, a sigh escaping his lips by accident.

"And that matters to you, does it?" he asked. He nearly laughed at the immediate, indignant fluttering of Sherlock's hand to his words.

"No no of course not. I don't care if they find me to be the scum of the earth or if they think I'm a godsend. They probably consider me both, though, and I couldn't possibly blame them. No. It was what I said a moment ago, about the city, mourning me. I had to leave London frequently over the past three years. And of course, I left you. Often. The rain is serving as a reminder tonight."

John sucked in a quick breath to his words; the sound disturbed the relatively peaceful atmosphere like a gunshot. John winced again and swung his legs over the bed, getting to his feet.

"Sherlock, whatever they think of you, _I _don't give a damn. And maybe that doesn't matter, but I also know that you don't care either, and you really shouldn't. Christ, you can stop sounding so sad now, please," John begged softly, walking forward and reaching Sherlock as he did. The consulting detective was silent as John wrapped his arms around him from behind, simply sighing at the new warmth.

Heavenly, that feeling was, for the two of them. John felt Sherlock relax a little at the contact, and he smiled to himself. Sherlock's own hands reached to cover John's, resting on his bare chest.

"Who said anything about my being sad?"

"Oh, I can always tell," John murmured into Sherlock's bare skin. He planted a kiss at the space between his shoulder blades and pulled away, grabbing Sherlock's hand.

"You're the only one who thinks he can do that. Besides Molly."

"Molly's on another level that I can't compete with. I'm just glad you settled for _my_ level of normality." John gently tugged Sherlock back towards the bed and the man followed without complaint. They climbed back in and settled next to each other in a familiar position, their legs tangled and their hands on each other, anywhere they wanted to reach for as they exchanged several soft kisses and sighs.

"I'd settle for you any day. You, me, and London's rainy streets. Sounds good, doesn't it?" Sherlock drew closer to John and curled up into his former position against him, a smile on his face, one he knew was mirrored on John's; he could tell by the sound of his laughter and the tone of his next words, and it made him think it was possible to forget about the past, just for that moment.

"There will never be a better trio in London."


	6. Yellow Car

Sherlock was driving, he was perfectly in control, and he noticed the yellow car just as John, sitting beside him, called out, "Yellow car!" The army doctor flushed when Sherlock looked at him sideways and gave him a pointed glance.

"What was that?"

John shrugged, failing to appear nonchalant as his blush deepened.

"It's a game. From this radio thing; it's called Cabin Pressure. Molly told me about it. You see a yellow car, you call out 'yellow car.' It's uh...fairly simple." Sherlock nodded, his eyes to the road once more.

"Ah. It also sounds fairly idiotic," he declared. John rolled his eyes and smiled when not a minute later, Sherlock suddenly exclaimed "yellow car!" without once tearing his eyes away from the road.

And so the game began.


	7. Morning Kisses

Morning kisses might be the one thing Sherlock doesn't dare analyze.

Waking up with fingers curled up in his hair and lips pressed against the sensitive skin at the base of his neck, it isn't the right moment to analyze. So Sherlock takes the kisses a drowsy, mumbling John gives him, and he returns a few himself, just letting the moment last.

And every single kiss lets him say "I love you so very very much" without ever letting the words pass from his lips. Not that he wouldn't say them out loud; John knows very well that he would. It's just that mornings are for sleepy, perfect kisses, not declarations of love.

And that's just fine for the two of them.


End file.
